He Rises
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: Sept 2017 - No one is more surprised than me to feel the rest of this story playing out. Set Post 6.12, AU. What if Quinn was as resourceful as we all know he can be? And he had called in a favor just before heading to NYC with Carrie? I set my mind to figuring a way out of CF 6.12, and this fell into my head on Easter Sunday - the feast of the resurrection.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Smoke and steam. The taste of copper in his mouth, and a sharp pain in both shoulders. He coughed, and a bit more blood came up. His neck throbbed. He slumped to one side, his breathing light and uneven.

"He saved us," said a low female voice, sounding calmer than seemed reasonable.

"Yeah," Carrie gasped.

"What was his name?" asked the breathless voice behind the driver's seat.

 _Don't touch me. Don't touch me, Carrie. Please don't._

"Peter Quinn," Carrie stated. Shock was settling upon her, he could tell. His brain was scrambled from the stroke, but that much he still knew. He still knew her shit. Tight as a drumhead, this one, and cold as steel, at least at the moment. Country and duty – let that hold her for a moment. Let that be her watchword while he deliberately slowed his breathing.

 _Don't. Please don't touch me. Just go._

Then, chaos. The light changed, then changed again. There were shouting voices, and flashes of light. Someone hauled the door open, and the woman – the President – was hoisted from the vehicle, Carrie close behind her. He laid as still as possible. He waited. The Kevlar vest had held, God help him, it had held somehow, and he thought it might have something to do with the fact that the assassins hadn't been particularly good shots, or using the best ammo.

 _A head shot would have been the end. I'm lucky, lucky again. A cat with nine lives._

Around the SUV, a deafening babble. Reporter's voice. Police. Passers-by, and someone was screaming. It wasn't Carrie, though. Sad to say, after all these years he knew her scream of anger, and her scream of terror, but not her scream of pleasure. Probably never, now. But never mind. He hoped they'd get to him soon, or the NYPD would.

Then, the driver's side door burst open, and Quinn felt a hand touch his. He kept his eyes closed. He felt a warm face lean close, and in a thick Berlin accent, a voice intoned something in his ear.

"Quinn. Quinn, it's Gerhardt. We've got you."

He allowed himself the most subtle of smiles, and then, he was out.

* * *

Of course not. Of course he wouldn't have gone into a potential firefight like this, not without some protection. He'd been wearing it since the Flag House blew. While Carrie had strode around the yard, looking for signs of life, Quinn remembered that this team kept a bunch of extra gear. Stowed in a closet, he remembered, on a shelf. He checked for a pulse with the last EMT who'd gotten hit by shrapnel, and when another team arrived to take care of her, he'd gone inside. Carrie was on the other side of the yard, squatting on one knee and facing away, trying to reach someone on her cell.

He'd dug around in the closet, and with his improving one-armed post-stroke method, removed his hoodie and shirt. He pulled the Kevlar on with some difficulty, and held it close to him while tightening the side belts with his teeth and good hand. He'd pulled his shirt on again, and struggled into his hoodie. Then, he dug in the drawers of the two side tables in the back bedroom he was in, until he found a burner phone.

With a curved finger, Quinn touched the screen and dialed a number. It was an International number, Country code +49. He'd had it memorized so long, it was easy to recall, even in his befuddled state. Quinn waited through a series of clicks and the hiss of an open line, until the call connected. Finally, a voice answered.

"Allo?"

"It's Quinn. Astrid's Quinn. I'm in trouble. I need you to….t-track me. And get me the… fuck out of New York City. Today," he finished. After a pause, he added, "Please."

The man on the other end of the line was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then the low male voice said, " _Ja._ You've never asked for anything. We come and help you. Leave the GPS on." There was no click, but a deeper silence as the call terminated.

Quinn took the phone and slid the GPS position to "on." He buried it in the inside front pocket of his loose pants, then filled his pockets with other useful items from a lockbox he found unhinged on the top shelf of the bedroom closet. A fake passport, some cash. He ferreted it all inside the Kevlar vest, and then went out to rejoin Carrie in the sunshine.

He was ready.


	2. Chapter 2

The ambulance rolled slowly off of the scene of the assassination attempt. No lights, no siren. Even during triage, the extraction team wanted to escape notice completely. A quiet, dark ambulance was surely a bus to the morgue – so no eyes would be on them. They could show no urgency. Where the fuck they had acquired a FDNY Ambulance, Quinn couldn't begin to guess. But it was good cover.

And cover was what he needed. He was sure that Carrie meant what she'd said – that she'd _try_ to get the Solicitor General to look the other way when they were cracking skulls regarding the incident at the Flag House – but God knew she wasn't infallible. He knew that she _thought_ she could get him off, but her plans had… a way of going haywire at the last second. And not only that, there were shadow forces that wanted him dead. People worse than Dar, the people who killed Astrid. He couldn't quite make sense of it in his head – blame his PTSD, his stroke, or a barrel of Sarin gas for that. But all the pieces hadn't fallen into place in his mind. For that reason, and others still too nebulous to consider, he decided it was time to bug the fuck out.

So, here he was. Quinn was semi-conscious in the back of the ambulance as Gerhardt rapidly staunched the blood loss, and checked him over for other injuries. He stripped off Quinn's hoodie and t-shirt as he did so. Quinn looked for a moment, thought a bit – his thoughts were hazy. Then he remembered where he knew the guy from. This was the same team that had grabbed him out of Bellevue a week or so before.

" _Ja_ , you are a careful soldier, now," he said as he removed the Kevlar. " _Mattias_ ," he called up to the driver's seat. " _Langsam fahren._ He will not bleed out, so we do not attract attention." Quinn grunted and tried to help Gerhardt remove his shirt, so he could bandage the two bullet wounds.

"F-fucking arm," he cursed, as his hemiplegic side turned to jello, his wrist caught in a band of fabric.

"No worries," said the agent, clipping the fabric with utility scissors. He bent absorbedly over his patient, applying pressure and bandaging, securing ice packs over them, and then sitting back to draw a syringe of painkiller. Before administering it, he sat back, covered the needle, and spoke to Quinn. The agent looked down at the Kevlar vest – there was a flattened slug lodged in a black hole, right over the left side of the chestpiece.

"I suppose," the man said, eyebrows raised, looking back up at Quinn, "you are wanting to go out of country."

"Yeah," Quinn said. "Somewhere quiet."

Gerhardt eyed him and for just a moment, he saw a prickling of anger in the hooded eyes of the man leaning over him with the painkiller. Quinn felt a frission of anxiety. Then, his calm returned. If this German black ops dude were to off him with a load of morphine, it would be a fucking easy way out, compared to some deaths he'd faced. He breathed out, and waited for the question, and finally it came, in the form of a statement.

"Astrid, she wanted to take care of you. This got her killed."

Quinn winced. He'd give anything to take back that decision, to leave the bullets in her gun. Who knows where they'd be by now? At the worst, Astrid would be back in her tidy Berlin flat, and he on his way to who-the-fuck-knows where. He considered his response.

" _I_ didn't kill her." It was the best thing he could come up with. So unlike his old self, hard as nails, he now turned his head away, and a tear trickled down his cheek.

Something about this either satisfied Gerhardt, or the agent realized what a damaged man his was dealing with. Either way, sadly, it was water under the bridge. He found an alcohol wipe, and cleaned off the inside of Quinn's right elbow.

"I know." Gerhardt said simply. "Those fucks. Come on, you sleep. We get you out of town." He injected Quinn with the medicine.

The inside of the ambulance immediately became hazier. Quinn overheard the driver ask a question, and heard his nursemaid answer something about a safe house – that was good. Then he said, Connecticut. That was fucking weird, but maybe he heard it wrong. The lake house had been upstate. He wondered where he was going, then decided he didn't give a fuck. He'd made a move, and it would turn out however it turned out.

A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, easing him into sleep. That was ok. He heard the man murmur.

"Rest, Peter Quinn. She cared for you."

Quinn knew he wasn't talking about Carrie, but that was ok too. The pain quieted completely, and he went to sleep as the ambulance rolled north and merged onto I-95.


	3. Chapter 3

Late in the afternoon, Carrie sat on a hard bench in the hallway of the ER. She had been transported to the nearest hospital immediately after the attack: New York-Presbyterian, in Lower Manhattan. She was hoping to be released soon, but a large number of the ER staff was in the treatment rooms and the operating theater, treating some of the wounds caused by the assassins' spray of bullets. There was no one available to monitor a patient as healthy as she was. So she had been triaged to the bench outside a treatment suite, with a blanket and a cup of cocoa. She knew she was to be observed for shock, and await her colleagues and friends. She hoped her condition would be reviewed soon, so she could be released.

Her cell had been silent since she'd confirmed the Chief of Staff's death with the president's team, and had said goodbye to Elizabeth Keane. The President-Elect had been transported as quickly as possible to a chopper pad and moved to D.C., against the feeble objections of her handlers. Never again would she be sequestered in a "safe house" while the world rolled on without her. Whatever plot had caused that bizarre detour the first time had been derailed. Keane swallowed down any grief she felt for Rob, covered it with a steely stare, and had nodded goodbye unsentimentally to Carrie

Neither Carrie nor the President had been injured, but many passers-by, staffers, police, and Secret Service had been. And there was the question of what happened to Saul. She'd seen him getting in one of the SUVs, she knew she had. One of them had blown. She still didn't know if the other had a bomb in it, or if it was affected by the blast in the other car.

Finally, there was Quinn, who in his final moments, had driven them through the line of fire, and saved the President-Elect and herself. She had tried to make a call or two. But, she didn't want to think about that yet. Couldn't. She stuffed it down deep and sipped on the watery drink, which in no way resembled the kind of cocoa she would have made at home. It was more like water into which a brown crayon had been dipped. She leaned her head back until it touched the wall behind her, and closed her eyes.

She had learned meditation in the past to get control of skyrocketing emotions, and she used the practice now, to calm herself and get her arms around her fears. Her daughter. Saul. The President. And, Qui… No. Not Quinn. Back to the start. She pictured Hop, and Franny's giggle as she moved him across her bed. Deep breaths in, then out again. There, that was better. She sat still and tried to soak in the quiet. She pictured Franny's bedroom and her toys, sharing pancakes with her in the morning, and watching cartoons on a Friday night. Her breathing slowed, and she felt the panic recede.

As she settled into her thoughts, she heard someone approaching, and turned. Her one-time mentor stood nearby, bearded, solemn, and a bit dusty.

"Saul!" Carrie exclaimed, and came to her feet. They shared an embrace of relief. "How did you get here? I thought I saw you get in one of the blown SUVs."

"You thought wrong," he said, giving her a huge bear hug.

"What? How did you escape that blast?"

Saul shrugged. "It's a mystery," he said. They sat down on the bench side by side.

A moment passed, as Carrie pulled the blanket closer around herself, and they both studied their shoes.

"Carrie…" Saul started.

"Don't start," Carrie said warningly.

"What? What did you think I was going to say?" Saul implored, his brown eyes shining. "I was going to say, great work. You aren't off your game a bit, not a bit. Since we last worked together." He looked at the floor, and shook his head back and forth admiringly. "You put it together. Pulled her out, made it clear something was going south. You saved the President-Elect," he said.

He was clearly leading to that Other Topic. The one she didn't want to think about.

"I did what I had to," she said roughly, not looking him in the eye.

"You did," he agreed. Saul went silent again for a moment.

"And," Carrie said, finally fierce, "So did Quinn."

"I agree," Saul said obligingly. "He was never the same after Berlin. But the _essence_ of the man he was… that never changed." A slight smile graced his features. Honestly, he had never liked Quinn very much, but he admired what he'd heard about, the final moments of the assassination attempt.

"And with that," Saul said, "I'm going to step out into the waiting room and make a few calls."

"I tried that," Carrie said bleakly. "Well," she admitted, "I called Beth Israel."

"Alright," Saul said. "Back in a minute."

A few minutes later, an exhausted looking doctor in wrinkled scrubs came into the hallway, and signed off on a chart held by one of the shift RNs. She spoke quietly to the doc, who shrugged and nodded, and headed back into an exam room, armed with some Dermabond and followed by a short-coated medical student carrying a tray of sutures and antibiotics. The nurse walked over to Carrie.

"Miss Mathison. How you feeling?" She had a soft voice with a Georgia drawl. "I just heard from Dr. Kaplan, and there's no reason to keep you. If you're feeling well enough, you can go home." She reached down and patted Carrie's wrist, breaking Carrie's thousand-yard stare at the wall. When Carrie looked up, the nurse nodded toward the waiting area behind the sliding doors.

"That your family?" she said warmly.

"Not exactly," Carrie responded.

"Do you want us to call someone else?"

Carrie thought despondently for a moment. Her sister would have come, but she was in D.C. Franny was too little and helpless to do anything but love her Mommy and want to come home – no help there. Max, well, she didn't even know where Max was. Saul was fatherly, but far from a father. But, once, there had been...

"No," she whispered. "There's nobody else. My friend will see me home."

"Alright, hon. You take care now," the nurse said. She got Carrie to sign off on the release paperwork, walked her to the waiting room doors and saw her into the lobby.

Carrie dropped the blanket onto a nearby chair and swiped her phone open. She walked over to Saul.

"Well," Saul said. "You know he's not here."

"I know. And I called Beth Israel. Quinn's not in that morgue, either," she stated grimly.

"Morgue?" Saul inquired, looking down at her. "How do you know he's dead?"

Shock, surprise, dismay, and embarrassment crossed Carrie's face, first, one after the other, and then seemingly all at the same time.

"I saw… I thought…." she started, stammering. "He was shot. Twice," she added, rationalizing.

Saul stood close, his voice deep and quiet."Did you check for a pulse?"

"No!" Carrie retorted, turning around. She dialed another number, her back to Saul. "Hello? This is Carrie Mathison, I'm inquiring about a man who was killed in the firefight in…"

Saul shook his head. He called Bellevue and a few more emergency wards while Carrie waited on hold, swore, waited some more, and shouted down the line at the operator at Lenox Hill. He finally reached a contact at the Port Authority, left a message and described its urgency, and the number where he could be reached. He'd worked with them before – after the last big NY tragedy. If it was within their power to tell him, he knew he'd hear something soon, no matter what his question was. Meanwhile, Carrie had lost her cool and cut off the call.

"Fucking idiots! His body isn't there either. Let's get the hell out of here."

Carrie stormed out of the ER, down the sidewalk, Saul trailing behind, eventually catching up as she headed for her bus station. A couple of minutes later, she heard Saul's cell ringing. She stopped on the sidewalk, irritated, as Saul held up an open hand and pulled it out of his pocket. She waited impatiently, arms folded, but Saul gave nothing up from his end of the conversation - he was simply listening and commenting inscrutably.

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. _Wow_. Yeah, got it. No, don't do that. We'll take it from here. Thank you, Sam," Saul ended the call.

"What?" Carrie demanded.

"Well, first, we haven't found Quinn's body in any hospital. Neither have any of the other city services. And now, that was the deputy commissioner. EMS Division one reports a missing ambulance, which was spotted on the scene of the assassination attempt. State patrol just found it abandoned next to a Bar and Grill in Rye. Up by Westchester, right off the 95."

"So what?"

"So," Saul clipped, out of patience with her impatience. "We have a stolen ambulance, which was then abandoned. With blood in it," he added.

"Blood?" Carrie quavered.

"That's what I was told."

"So? What are you telling me, Saul?" Carrie voice rose, and her chin wobbled. "Are you telling me Quinn was in that ambulance?"

"I don't know," Saul responded.

"You don't _know_? Jesus Christ! Is he alive, or dead?" she was nearly shrieking now, her face gone white.

"Yes," Saul quipped.

" _Fuck!"_


	4. Chapter 4

SIX WEEKS LATER

Quinn sat on the beach, watching the waves slosh over the weathered gravel. He was sitting on the sand above the tideline, far enough up that his clothes wouldn't get wet. The weather wasn't exactly warm, in fact, it was on the cool side that day, cloudy and misty, especially close to the water, as he was. But he was now able to lean back on his hands, and put his full weight on his arms. His shoulders were healing up. The ocean smelled good to him, even the fishy overtones he got when the wind shifted south. Seagulls squawked overhead, and hazarded the waves to get at small tidbits that turned up on the beach. The pickings were better around the dumpsters. One bird eyed him warily from atop a nearby covered trash can. He almost smiled back at the gull. Why not? He was alive.

His limp had been more pronounced for a while, but that was starting to level off a bit, too. In the last few days, he'd started to take walks. Gerhardt had to split on another job, and he'd been gone a month. But before he left the state, he hooked Quinn up with his critical medication, and introduced another semi-retired covert operative who lived in the region. She made a pass through the cottage every week. She spoke a few brief lines in German, inspected his wounds, dropped a bag of groceries, and left.

Guilford. He was in Guilford, Connecticut. He hadn't been here before, but it was a cookie-cutter match for many other New England small towns, with quaint shops, restaurants, and a public pebble beach where he now sat. The utility of the house's location in this town puzzled him.

"Why here? What the hell is in Guilford?" he'd asked the visiting German operative one day. She'd finished re-bandaging his exit wound and dropped the used bandages in the trash. Lighting a Pall Mall, she regarded Quinn silently for a moment, streaming smoke into the room from pursed lips.

"Exactly," she'd replied. Alright, then, he'd thought to himself. This safe house is safe because it's in the middle of buttfuck, nowhere. Fine. He'd fallen back to sleep after that, and hadn't heard her leave.

That was during week two, after he could sit up on his own. He had spent almost ten days unconscious, but after recovering somewhat from blood loss, he'd eased off the morphine and done a bit of snooping around. The two-bedroom clapboard saltbox they'd put him up in was plain and cozy, with few items that appeared personal in the bedroom, and the odd vase and framed painting or photo that made the place look lived-in, like a weekend escape for a supposedly absent city dweller. It was also tiny – he'd stayed in bigger apartments, even in his salad days. But it was adequate. It was clean, quiet, and the hot water worked. He'd sifted through the cabinets, found basic foodstuffs and a freezer full of Lean Cuisine. He'd frowned down at them, and resolved to nuke two or even three at a time. He'd been pretty thin on the cuisine lately anyway, and certainly didn't need to be more lean. After his injury, beating, institutional time, and the recent shooting, he was down to 165 pounds. Some of that was fluid, but not all.

As he needed less morphine, his appetite increased. Five weeks after the shooting, he was feeling pretty limber. Gerhardt's antibiotics had prevented infection, and the unlisted sawbones they'd had come in and make sure his bullet wounds were cleaned out had done a good job.

Quinn sat down in the tiny living room with his food every night. He'd tried listening again to the radio shows he'd followed at Carrie's house. But for some reason, something about that guy, O'Keefe, now made his skin crawl. He'd listened for a minute, but then snapped the radio off again. He was still hazy about what day of the week it was, but he could identify emotion in people's voices. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed it before – that dude, Brett O'Keefe, was crazy. Maybe crazy like a fox. But there was an undertone of batshit that he didn't care for at all, didn't want polluting his brain anymore. He was just like that Alex… someone. Quinn couldn't retrieve the name. Infowars. Both shows were a total mind-fuck.

Quinn leaned back on the couch, and finished gobbling his rice and beans. Right before he'd gotten angry and turned the radio off, he'd heard O'Keefe babble some crazy shit that had stuck with him. Or maybe he'd heard it back with that girl… Clarice, the one he'd … well, or maybe he'd heard it at Carrie's house. It was O'Keefe's voice, though, and it stuck in his memory.

" _They tell us what to do, what to think…. These motherfuckers are_ _ **killing**_ _us…"_ and then later, _"…if you feel it - this calling to be an independent American - the time to rise up is now. Now!"_

Yeah, exactly, Quinn thought. He belched. Time for a little independence, away from your stream of asshat propaganda.

He felt more in control of his thoughts lately. Some of it was weaning off the morphine which, to be honest, he had used judiciously until he'd run out. But he wasn't in pain anymore. He wondered a lot of his problems with fuzzy thinking and memory, and even with slurred speech hadn't been because of the Ativan.

The way he'd used alcohol to dull stress, he'd gotten himself in a tight spot with physical withdrawal more than once. He'd had the VA doctors prescribe Ativan for the times he'd had nightmares, and used it when he'd been sick after a week or two of binge drinking. But since his most recent bullet wound, he hadn't drunk alcohol at all. He'd felt too sick to even think of it, and later when he did think of it, he had no car to get around. The salt-and-pepper haired troll that brought his groceries never suggested booze, and Gerhardt's last care package had only contained his anti-seizure meds, and one antidepressant. He took the Zoloft and the Lamictal. But no booze meant no drying-out, and no drying out meant no rebound anxiety. And thus, no Ativan. It made sense, and though he hadn't meant to do a cleanse up here, it appeared that he had. His mind, his thinking and memory were more clear every day.

He'd punched buttons until another radio station came up, WNPR, out of Meridian, it said. That was better. He listened to news about President Keene, the latest protests in DC and New York, the fallout from the assassination madness and the attempted coup. Then, a story about higher-ups at the C.I.A. being arrested _en masse._

With his stomach full, he had been dozing off, but that news story brought him around quickly. He'd turned on the TV and flipped channels until he found MSNBC. Same story. A few familiar faces in were brought on, the classic perp walk in handcuffs, and later there was a still shot of Dar Adal, who evidently wasn't doing the walk of shame because he was already in a holding cell. _Jesus fucking Christ._

He sat back down hard, and an "oof" of dismay escaped his lips as he listened to the newscaster describe the previous night's events. He thought to himself again what a close shave he'd just had. He could have – maybe, should have - been dead. Maybe all these guys were in on it. It was certainly possible. He knew Dar could have turned his back on him, if it was to his advantage. He should have shot the fucker when he had the chance. He hadn't seen Saul on TV, but he wondered if he was in custody as well.

And then, he thought of Carrie. He'd tried not to think of her at all for a while, and to his surprise, had done pretty well at it. At the flag house, she'd tried to say she cared, in some oblique way. Her eyes had filled, and for a moment, Quinn felt a stab of pity. He guessed she did care. But he'd stayed around and waited for so long. Waiting for her. He'd tried acting interested. He'd tried acting indifferent. He'd disappeared for two and a half years, then gone right back to risking his life for her. He'd written her a letter - he still wondered what happened to it. And now, after Berlin, the New York incident, and everything else, she was still off on her own, still being Carrie. Still working for her country. _Country first._ And still looking in the mirror to see how she was being perceived, he guessed. He had to admit it to himself. He admired her drive, and he would always love her. But she was selfish.

He pushed the memories away, but felt a twinge when he thought about Franny. It had been nice to be around a child. She was a sweet girl. And he thought briefly, painfully, about little Johnny. Almost ten years old now, not a little boy any more. Was he playing little league baseball now? On the swim team? Learning guitar? Julia was a good mother, and he knew Johhny would have the things he'd never had himself. Stability, love, home support. But his role? That ship had sailed.

He looked again at the images on TV, and caught a glimpse of a woman in a gray pantsuit with shoulder-length blond hair, flanking the President. He couldn't see the woman's face, because there was a guy walking along, positioned in such a way that he blocked her face from the camera. Presumably, that man was the new chief of staff. Quinn didn't recognize him. But the woman's hip, the hair, the stride, the way of swinging her arms – that was Carrie for sure. With the President. Moving on. He turned the TV off, and got his coat.

That had been the first of his daily walks. He'd walked down the residential streets, slowly at first. He didn't want to attract attention, or make anyone think he was a vagrant. He kept moving. His hair was still long, but he'd pulled it back in a tail and put a cap over it. He'd dug through the dresser drawers until he'd found a decent shirt that fit, the L.L. Bean tag still attached to the sleeve. It was an XL, so it fit him in the shoulders, but the midsection flapped on his skinny frame like a sack. Quinn tucked it in. When he managed the all the buttons on the plaid flannel himself, he'd slipped boots on and looked in the mirror. _Almost human,_ he thought to himself.

In the neighborhood, on the cracked sidewalks, he'd taken some time to get around, and look at the homes and yards. He watched kids crossing the street after school, backpacks and trombone cases in hand. He'd seen moms and nannies pushing strollers and leading whiny pre-schoolers towards what he presumed was the beach. Walking down Whitfield Avenue, he'd seen a school group on foot, two by two and flanked by teachers in bright red t-shirts. He followed them to a broad lawn behing a low wall, and a stone house he'd not seen before. He walked up to a brown historical marker in the yard, and looked at the compact stone cabin with its very sharp roof. It looked straight out of Harry Potter. He didn't follow the school group, but went around the outside of the yard was clear, the trees tall and very old. The home had been built in 1639.

Quinn wasn't a visitor-center kind of guy, so after he'd satisfied himself with the view of the old house outside, he left the clamor of touring children and headed down the lane, past the low stone wall, and toward the beach, where he could hear the ocean surf. He found a comfortable spot to rest, and after that day, he'd come again and again, sitting for an hour or two at a time, just to think.

There was something about that old house. It stayed with him. He'd read a little of what was available on the outside of the historic structure. Long ago, so long that there had hardly been any white people on the continent at all, someone had the faith to come. Start a new family – the home's original builder, Henry Whitfield, had nine children. They'd left everything they'd known, and crossed the ocean. They brought the best of their own world with them – their religion, their language. Their traditions. And they'd left the old shit, the persecution, behind. In this new world, knowing no one, with no technology, they'd begun again, with the outcome unknown. All they had were their firearms, their bible, and a stone wall that the other locals used like a fort, in times of attack. He wasn't down with the way people had eventually oppressed the native population, but the original pioneers had been far too outnumbered to be anything other than scared shitless. It really took balls. They couldn't have foreseen the outcome – they all could easily have died. Themselves, and their children. A massacre or a famine, or some disease - they wouldn't have even left a mark, except maybe a stacked stone foundation, overgrown with ferns, and shadowed in mystery.

Every day on his walk, Quinn's feet took him past the old stone house, and his mind reviewed risk and reward. He thought about Carrie, about Max, about Saul and the agency. His past - what little he had of a childhood - and his hard-charging adulthood, up until the gas attack and the stroke. And for the first time, he considered his solitary future. He thought about the years he'd waited, and the number of times he'd hoped Carrie would notice his silent, devoted love. He thought about waiting longer, and going back to New York.

There had been a great deal of waiting in his life. He was 40 years old. As he sat staring out at the ocean, trying to focus on the vanishing point in the distance, it hit him that he wasn't getting any of that time back. Standing up on the beach, he swept the sand off his seat, and threw the end of a bag of potato chips to the seagulls, carefully depositing the empty sack in a waste can. He walked slowly back towards the safe house, his head down, his limp less pronounced, his shoulders squared.

He stopped in front of the memorial statue of Henry Whitfield on the way back to the cottage. If there was time left for him to pioneer anything, then he'd have to start on that voyage soon. Risk and reward. He was sure that the Whitfields had left people and places behind that they would miss – but he also suspected they found new places and people to love, right here. Or they wouldn't have stayed and thrived.

"Right, Henry?" Quinn asked the statue out loud. Then, suddenly becoming conscious that it might be a little crazy to be seen talking out loud to a statue, he turned his cap back towards the ground and hustled back to the safe house. He had some packing to do.


	5. Chapter 5

SIX WEEKS LATER

WASHINGTON DC

"Look," Carrie remonstrated with the seated group. "I'm not a legal scholar."

The seated intelligence officials glared stonily at the front of the conference room, where Carrie's palms lay sweaty and cool on the surface of the heavy mahogany table. With their sober suits and expressions, they could have been a contingent of funeral directors.

"I'm here," she tried again earnestly, "as a liaison to the Intelligence Community during this very difficult time."

Rachel Crofts, one of the group leaders, remonstrated quietly, "But, they've subpoenaed the personnel files of everybody in my department."

"Yes," Carrie insisted, "the investigation has broad powers under the amended provisions of the Patriot Act. That's a far cry from compiling an enemies list, Rachel."

"Is it? I don't know what to tell my staff…" interrupted Crofts, looking from one face to the next, the neat auburn waves that framed her face shaking slightly as she formulated her disagreement. "They're afraid they'll be arrested at any minute."

"Tell them they won't be," Carrie said confidently."You have my personal assurance on that."

Crocker, one of the senior team members was seated at Carrie's left hand. "Carrie, I appreciate you inviting us here, and telling us this. But we'd prefer to hear it from the President herself."

Carrie summoned up as convincing a smile as she could, and continued. "Most of you know me. We've all worked together. I won't lie to you…."

Somehow, she felt that this didn't buttress her believability all that much, but it was too late to turn back. She did her best to satisfy them, and adjourned the meeting.

Saul practically had to chase her down the hallway.

"Hey, slow down," he called. "What's the rush?"

Carrie didn't even break stride or look back. Saul increased his pace.

"I'm late," she intoned, "for the President."

"She can wait a few minutes," Saul suggested. When his search for Quinn had dead-ended, he'd tried to get into contact with Carrie to see if she'd gotten any farther than he had. But she wouldn't answer. She didn't respond to email, and she hadn't returned any of his calls for weeks.

"Come on, Carrie," he tried again, out of breath. "Make some time for an old friend." He meant Quinn, actually, but she turned around and seemed to see him, Saul, for the first time.

"Happy to," Carrie snapped, sounding anything but happy about it. As soon as he saw her face, her hair flying out as she turned, he could see she was inside herself again, and in the business of shaking him as fast as possible. Wound tighter than the bark on a tree, she was. "How about we meet up after work at the Hay-Adams?"

The Lafayette at the Hay-Adams was a nice choice, and something Saul would have looked forward to, in another situation. The Maine Lobster salad was to die for, and their Sautéed Dover Sole was something he actually had dreams about, when posted in food-poor regions overseas. But he knew that "After work" for Carrie could mean any time from 4 PM to Midnight, and he was tired. She was looking for a way to stand him up, and he knew it.

"How about we do it now," Saul said flatly. He felt old, and was tired of posturing. "That way, you don't cancel on me again."

"OK. Now. I only have a few minutes," Carrie said impatiently. She led him to an overstuffed settee nearby, and gestured for him to sit down. "I swear, I'm not avoiding you, Saul."

"OK," Saul nodded affably. "If you say so. But neither of us has been able to find Quinn. And you're not taking my calls. Where have you looked?"

Carrie frowned deeply, sighed hard. She looked up at the ceiling, and shook her head. Finally she made eye contact with Saul again, and shrugged. "I looked in expat databases, I talked to ICE, I checked the records at Homeland Security…"

Saul nodded knowingly. "I did that, too. Did you check under all his aliases?"

"All his _known_ aliases," Carrie nearly snarled. "He's slippery. Always was."

"Well, that's what he was trained for. And even after Berlin, there were flashes of brilliance," Saul mused admiringly.

"I don't know, Saul. I couldn't find him."

"Well, how badly do you _want_ to find him, Carrie? Are you still even looking? If he's alive, he could need care. Medical attention. Just a phonecall from a … friend," Saul finished helplessly. When Carrie was determined not to feel something, by God, just let anyone try to make her. He's seen it before. She was like a brick wall.

"You know Saul, I've had a lot on my mind. Trying to stage my home so Franny could come back. I've been working night and day, trying to obtain the information that the team needs to do extreme vetting on the White House staff, and the Intelligence community. I've been busy. And…"

She seemed to be reaching for something else to say, and finally realized she didn't have to try so hard. "The President is waiting. For me." She stood, still looking down at Saul, the recessed ceiling lights setting up a blinding halo behind her, her hair an aura of white, her face in shadow. Saul stood, slowly, eventually towering over her slender frame.

He looked down on her. He wore an expression that she couldn't identify.

"There was a time," Saul said solemnly, "When you told me you couldn't lose him."

"When was that?" Carrie said. She was genuinely confused, to all appearances.

"In Islamabad. Lockhart sent us home, after the massacre. You stayed just to find Quinn," Saul finished. If that didn't jog her memory, nothing would.

Carrie looked away, out a window. Maybe trying to see the Rose Garden from here, he thought. She was a million miles away. Finally, she summoned a response.

"I don't know where he is," she said. Then, a bit more defensively, "He told me, I had to let him go."

Saul frowned. He didn't know what to say to someone so determined to ignore a real bond, a true friendship. A friend who might be in trouble.

" _He_ would never have let go, until he knew for sure _you_ were alive or dead, Carrie."

She looked back at him, looked Saul up and down, and backed away a few steps, brows furrowed. In the background, someone called out for Ms. Mathison.

"Before you go, _old friend_ ," Saul asked finally, "Do _we_ have anything to worry about?" As he said the word, "we," he gestured broadly behind him to the group of Intel experts who were gathered, muttering amongst themselves in the hallway after her meeting.

"No, Saul. You all have my word. There are no purges coming, or one-way tickets to the Gulag."

CUNARD LINE OFFICES

NEW YORK CITY

"One-way, sir?"

"Yes, for the moment," Quinn said quietly. He was stooped over a bit, and leaned on a rubber-footed quad cane – the readers he'd picked up at Duane Reade sat halfway down his nose. With the cane, his false stoop and his very real limp, he wasn't concerned about being made. He thought, a bit sadly, that he actually did look old at the moment. Or maybe he didn't look old - but he felt used-up.

He had a fresh haircut, though. He'd had his ears lowered at a barber in Brooklyn the week before, and he'd grown out his goatee in his time in Guilford. He'd trimmed it neatly, and the barber had tidied it up as well. The barbershop he'd picked was a block or two from Carrie's neighborhood, and he knew better than to lie to himself. He had gone there because he wanted to say goodbye, somehow. But at a safe distance.

He'd Ubered to her streetcorner and ambled by just after midnight. Just an old fellow, an insomniac, taking in the air. Looking up at her window, he saw it was dark. He had no doubt that even with his limited one-handed technique; he could break into her house quietly, and look around if he wanted to. But he did not.

There was nothing he left behind that was irreplaceable. Just a few photos of John – and one other - but he'd uploaded those scans surreptitiously to a Shutterfly account a few years back, and linked them to an anonymous email. Nothing like cloud storage for the truly rootless, he thought. He was a cloud himself, and as he drifted past her darkened brownstone, he felt himself let go of something. He couldn't say what, but at the end of the street, he'd tapped the Uber icon again, and requested a ride into the city.

He was preoccupied enough with these memories to miss what the young lady at the Cunard office said.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, Mr. Connor, would you be requiring transportation from the dock at Southhampton?"

"I will… require a bit of time to decide."

"That's fine. And...alright sir, that's a single Inside stateroom on Deck 6, departing New York Harbor, arriving Southhampton, England, 7 days after departure. Dining included, alcohol not included, with taxes, fees and port expenses, that's 815 dollars and 49 cents."

Quinn handed over 9 folded pictures of Ben Franklin, which the young lady took without a word. She stood and walked to the drawer next to her, where an older lady made change. She handed Quinn his tickets, cash, and a flyer describing the onboard restaurants and requirements for travel.

"Don't forget your passport, Mr. Connor. The QM2 serves a formal dinner each evening at 6 pm, which you might enjoy dressing for…" she looked down at his cane, wondered if she should be suggesting a suit to a fellow who looked so infirm. "But there are a variety of casual options. Enjoy your voyage," she finished.

She was already looking at the young couple standing anxiously behind him, so Quinn nodded gravely and said a quick farewell.

"Thanks. I think I will," he said, and permitted himself a slip of a smile.


	6. Chapter 6

The President sat back in the darkened room, leaning into the upholstery, a cut-glass decanter of whiskey on the tray next to her. Glenfarclas. It had been Andrew's favorite.

The only light in the room came from the 32" flat screen in front of her. There was occasional murmuring in the hall outside her bedroom, but for the most part, the White House residence was quiet. A lowball glass held a shot of the strong brown liquor, which sat untouched on the side table next to her. It made her feel better to smell it, but she didn't care for the taste. But still, she wanted to have a drink with her son. After she finished watching Andrew's movies, she'd pour the Scotch down the sink, brush her teeth, and go to bed.

Her usual ritual was to watch old movies of Andrew's childhood. His adolescence. How could a kid who was such an overachiever in math, in physics, also be such a whiz on the piano? She wished he had continued on with lessons after his 14th birthday, but he hadn't wanted to. And she hadn't been around to insist.

"I can play well enough to help me get a date, Mom," he'd said at 16. He'd sat down and banged out an oldie from back when he was a little boy, "Closing Time." That had shaken her too. When had he gotten old enough to become interested in girls? She was the classic absentee political parent, and she now felt she'd missed all the good stuff. Her son had been raised by nannies, and for a period of time, her Mother. Now, her Mom was in heaven with Andrew. And she watched his movies.

But since the assassination attempt, her subject matter had been different. She'd become obsessed with the Brett O'Keefe conspiracy footage, which purported to show her son, her Andrew, running away from danger. Abandoning his brothers-in-arms, leaving them in combat, leaving them to die. That was what they accused him of. She knew it was made up, and something about that made her both terribly calm and deeply angry. When she'd announced a few days earlier that she wanted Grand Juries assembled and warrants issued for the majority of her intelligence community, she used that anger as fuel. What colossal ego had been behind this mess? Who would dare to run her son's memory through the public wringer, using such a deplorable character as Brett O'Keefe? The man couldn't speak without someone pulling the puppet strings. But where did the strings go? How high, and to whom? She had to be sure the puppet master paid his due.

She knew she was watching the final minutes of her son's life, and on some level, understood that what she was doing wasn't mentally healthy. Andrew's actions had been honorable, she knew that. But the "Real Truth" footage gave her something to hash over, real meat to chew on. In the dim bedroom, she turned her eyes towards the last portrait of her son she'd had made – his graduation day from jump school. It sat next to a framed portrait of the two of them together, near his childhood baseball glove. He hadn't been a sweet seven year old missing a tooth when he died. He hadn't been a gawky 15 year old boy, reciting the Pledge before a ball game in the suburbs. He'd been a soldier. A Man of War.

And so, it was a War of Men. She should toughen up. She sniffed at the liquor in the glass, asked herself what she was going to do next.

Her anger grew, and her eyes narrowed. He was gone, and that was all.

* * *

It was day four of his voyage, and Quinn stood on the promenade deck, trying to remember the last occasion he'd had this much leisure time. That is, leisure time that didn't involve waiting to snipe someone out. He couldn't remember. He'd spent many hundreds of hours in his life, just waiting and watching. He was a professional observer. He couldn't turn it off, but that was alright. Observation was something he could still do.

Couples strolled past, elderly and youthful, holding hands or walking close. He'd seen families, all ages, all sizes, young couples with new babies goggling wide-eyed at the water, and a middle-aged couple with seven children: the oldest, a surly teen leading the youngest by the hand. Their Scandinavian mother was as thin as a rail. Quinn observed a single older lady scope out the ideally positioned deck chair, and sit heavily, covering herself with a knitted afghan. She opened a book, "The Road Taken," evidently a historical novel, and settled in for the long read. Not anywhere, in any direction, was there the slightest hint of danger or subterfuge.

It was unsettling. He wasn't being hunted. He wasn't being looked for at all, as far as he could tell. He'd remain watchful, no doubt. That behavior was hard to unlearn. But the Queen Mary 2 was sound, the refitting and refurbishment made it feel like a time machine into the distant past. There were no enemies here. The greatest hazards he'd been able to identify were the cholesterol level of the items on the hot _hors d'œuvre_ table, and the risk of falling overboard, drunk. Not that he was in danger from either: he'd not indulged in alcohol at all since coming on board. His mind was clear as a bell since he'd left off the tranquilizers, and he was curious about how much clearer it would get, in time.

Still, there were other mental issues, albeit minor ones. He was unused to relaxation, and quite at a loss as to how to occupy himself. Fortunately, his habit of extreme introversion was not out of place on this ocean liner, and he found that meals in the company of others in _The Brittania_ restaurant were cordial and inoffensive. He'd been seated with a variety of people at the evening meal, but hadn't really hit it off with anyone. His shipmates had been content to simply eat in peace as he broke off midsentence to look out the window, as no doubt some of them didn't have English as a first language. And like so many out to sea for the first time, he couldn't stop looking at the water.

That's what he'd spent most of his time doing – gazing at the ocean. He'd found a dram of solace in the sight of the beautiful blue-green surface, and as most of his days onboard coincided with great weather topside, he'd spent many hours sitting on the deck. Quinn would face into the bracing wind, smelling the salt, listening to sound of splashing waves and the engines, and enjoyed the feeling of the great ship moving steadily underneath him. At night, the _Queen Mary 2_ rocked him to sleep. He'd forgotten what it felt like, but the previous few days had been… pleasant.

That was the word. He'd not had a taste of peace in such a long time. Not much before Berlin, and certainly little after. At this point, even if he only lived another 6 months, he wanted the time he spent on Earth to feel like this. For a week or two in Guilford, he'd been like a deep-sea fish, unexpectedly trawled and hauled to the surface – the lack of pressure had nearly killed him. But as his body had healed, so had his spirit. It had taken a lot out of him to recognize it, but he had to admit – the fact that he wasn't constantly worrying about Carrie had brought him no small measure of this peace.

He'd done what he could for her. Most recently, he'd made a critical decision to bust her and the President out of the ring of assassins, nearly giving his life in the process _._ Risked his life, _for the tenth or eleventh time_ , he'd thought morosely. He'd then made the equally important tactical decision to escape with the German intel team, and tell no one of his whereabouts.

Who knew, in the near term, he might just live quietly, and enjoy the tranquility. He had enough back pay stowed off-shore to not require employment in the near - or even distant - future. He told himself that he might pop up at some point in the future, and check on Carrie. Then again, she'd made her choice. She could have hunted him down – at least to see how he was doing. But she hadn't. He understood that in deciding not to try to find him, she'd still made a choice.

So, Quinn made a choice, too. He sat down next to the older lady on the deck, and nodded politely at her as she'd smiled her welcome.

"Beautiful day," she said, beaming.

He slid his cane off to one side, arranged himself comfortably, and allowed himself to smile back. She offered him a copy of the ship's newsletter, " _Britain Today_ ," which he took without a word.

"Yes, it is," he'd confirmed. He stared down at the newspaper, the slight smile still on his face. His new life stretched out in front of him like a magic carpet.

Carrie, the CIA, Dar Adal, all that was behind him. He was gone, and that was all.

* * *

"You call me, Carrie," Max insisted, as she shut the door. He'd stayed while she cried it out, let loose her feelings about Quinn. At least the ones she could identify. He'd not said anything, just let her have her moment. Almost before it was seemly, though, she cut it off, and wiped her eyes.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "And I need to get the house ready for Franny." Then, she'd seen him out.

Earlier, she'd gone into the basement apartment like a house afire, ready to trash Quinn's belongings. He was dead, she was sure of it. He was out of her reach. She'd gone from one pile to the next, restraining herself from picking his clothing up and smelling it. No sense in kicking porcupines.

Kicking porcupines, yeah. That was a term her Dad had used, back in the old days. It meant digging up memories that did nothing but hurt. So Carrie barreled forward, getting rid of Quinn's clothes, socks, about as subtle as a bullet to the head, thrusting everything unceremoniously into a trashcan liner. No memories, no memorabilia meant no porcupines to kick. She'd yanked a drawer open, and found a book that had belonged to him. And out of it fell photos of his son.

 _Quinn's private life._ Photos of his child as a baby, the image of his mother. And then, older. _I fucked it up_ , he'd said when she was pregnant. Older still, until the lines of Quinn's cheekbones could be see in the child's face. Then at the back, the picture that undid her. Quinn had kept and hidden a photo of herself.

It was a recent one, too. Her hair was shorter. She remembered the day he'd snapped it, she'd been posing with Franny in the kitchen, next to a huge chocolate chip pancake Fran had helped make. Quinn had cropped her daughter out of the picture, and kept the headshot of Carrie, wearing a kind, wistful expression.

He had loved her. She knew it. Seeing her photo in his things yanked her chain so hard, she had to sit down. The tears had come, unbidden. Which was when Max had come in and comforted her in his silent, steadfast way.

But she was ok now. This is the way life was. People come and go. She had had a good meeting with Christine Lonas, the social worker, had shown her all of Franny's toys and her room. They had greenlit Franny's return. All she needed to do now was get Quinn's shit out of her apartment, and prepare for the move to D.C. A full time position with the President. Despite her current sense of angst around cleaning up the remains of Quinn's life, she felt a swelling sense of pride about having been taken into the confidence of the President, especially after the suspicion around Saul, and the arrest of Dar Adal.

She went on shoving his things into the trash bag. He was gone, and that was all.

She was just finishing up, and headed to the dumpster out in the back when she heard the front doorbell go. Max, maybe? Did he forget his phone? Or Reda, sucking up now that Carrie's clout was restored?

Carrie opened the door, to find the breathless social worker back on her front stoop. She frowned and shook her head wonderingly.

"Chris, what is it? Did you forget something?"

"No, Carrie, I…" she looked around herself nervously. "I was told to come right back here. That you might need…"

"I was just getting ready to head to visit Franny. Did you get us a court date?"

"No," Chris stated flatly. "That might have to wait."

"What do you mean?" Carrie inquired. Behind Mrs. Lonas, a large black SUV slid to a stop at the curb in front of Carrie's brownstone. Two men got out, clearly Federal agents, from their size and bearing. Carrie recognized one of them, and greeted him by name.

"Paul. Special Agent Clark," she said nodding to them both. "What brings you here?"

The agent grimly stated. "Carrie Mathison? You'll have to come with us."

Carrie shook her head, rapidly, confused. "I don't understand."

Agent Clark moved behind her, and applied handcuffs, gently. The other agent, seemingly embarrassed, went to script and didn't try to explain further.

"Miss Mathison, you have the right to remain silent."


	7. Chapter 7

"Thank you for coming," Carrie said.

"It's not a problem," Otto replied. He was tooling down one of the middle lanes, guiding the sturdy Mercedes Maybach towards Midtown with an authoritative grip on the leather-covered steering wheel.

 _Not a problem, ha-ha, very funny_ , she thought. Carrie slumped in the passenger seat, exhausted. _He only had to drop everything and fly directly here to help me._

As a businessman and a foreign national, Otto had certainly been somewhat put out. He'd decided to get on one of his private jets to come and pay Carrie's bail. Of course, he could have sent Jonas, or one of his American employees. But frankly, Otto was pleased to receive Carrie's cry for help, and had been quietly excited to come in person and post her bond. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd send Jonas, truth be told. That _spießer_ would never get near her again, if Otto had his way.

"What I can't believe is that they required something other than an I-Bond," she seethed. The whole thing was unbelievable. From being the President's confidant, to drunk-dialing her for help with custody and ending up on the outs again, to back to being on the inside again after the assassination attempt... her luck had run out, just as the Keene's paranoia overtook her common sense. No, once again Carrie was shunted to the Outer Darkness of E-list personalities ('E is for Evicted,' her colleague Rebecca had snorted), and she who'd once held a position of power with the clever, mercurial, and some said, slightly-unhinged POTUS was _persona non grata._

"Obstruction of Justice is a serious crime," Otto stated simply. "And I think they knew 500,000 dollars was out of your reach."

"It's retaliation. Pure and simple. Those fuckers," she sighed, unable to put a name on exactly who those fuckers were. Her stomach turned to jelly when she considered it was probably the POTUS herself. Thank God for Otto, because she'd had no one else to call; her sister didn't have that kind of money. Even if she had, Carrie wouldn't have asked her. And now she was shafted - no job, nor any likely past job to turn back to.

Saul was still in custody, his future uncertain. She'd long since burned her bridges with Reda – not that she, considering her current state of legal affairs, would be able to go back to work with any American social justice organization. Not while entertaining criminal charges of her own, certainly. But she had really counted on that job with the POTUS in D.C. She'd put her home up for sale, had arranged to move Franny there. She'd even paid the deposit on the private 4K in the neighborhood she'd been told she would soon be able to afford.

But all of that had immediately gone to hell, the moment she'd been arrested. No matter how completely she managed to expunge her record and avoid conviction on the current charges, there was a black cloud over her C.V., dating from the year she'd met Brody. Because of her brilliance and drive, she'd been sheltered from the consequences of her previous actions and choices by Saul, and… others. At least, at the C.I.A., she had. But now, in the private sector, she needed a clear professional bill of health. Even if all the charges were dropped, she was damaged goods.

She hardly had a friend left in the world, she thought to herself, almost moaning out loud. She leaned her head against the window, and listened to the Brahms playing quietly on the Harman-Kardon speakers in the Mercedes, as Otto tooled along the city streets, clearly not headed towards the Williamsburg Bridge and her Brooklyn neighborhood. He was taking her to his building, then. After her arraignment, hassle with Franny and the foster home, and other distressing details, like finding out that her custody court date was delayed, again – she was so drained, she didn't even try to protest.

"Come to my place," Otto insisted. "Just for tonight. Get your bearings."

"Sure, Otto," she sighed. "And, thanks."

He side-eyed her from behind the wheel, seeming to want to reach out, but then restraining himself, said only, "It is a bad situation, but it was… my pleasure."

She felt swallowed up in darkness as they entered the underground parking for Otto's building. Carrie sighed deeply, and wondered how she'd ever recover from this fiasco.

* * *

Quinn stood at the bottom of the long slope, wondering how far up the side of this small mountain his beat-up body would take him. Eight weeks had passed since he'd gotten off the ocean liner, and during that time he'd taken mostly public transport, supplemented by the odd Uber. Funnily enough, he still didn't trust himself to drive. It was strange, but driving on the other side of the road here in the UK was difficult for him now. He'd done it before the Sarin gas – in fact, he'd driven on the other side of the road in Australia and England before his stroke as easily as he did on the right in the US. But now, tasks that required his body to "cross the center line," as his occupational therapist had called it, were difficult for him.

One of these tasks was shaving. Quinn managed that by shaving with his left hand on his left side, and vice versa. He found that this forced ambidextrous behavior, amongst others, was increasing his fine motor skills and grip strength on both sides. The hemiplegia that had come along with the stroke was less of a bother, as he continued with a routine, and practiced the daily care activities as the V.A. team had showed him. There were other difficulties, but he found as he got more physical exercise in the outdoors that his crippling fatigue and poor sense of balance were less pronounced. His speech was also less slurred, and choosing words when speaking was becoming easier for him. He was almost afraid to admit it to himself, lest he be disappointed in the future, but there were days when he felt almost normal.

The main problem, honestly, had been all those drugs. And the alcohol. He understood that now. Some had been prescribed by doctors, but some he'd sought out on his own. That had changed since he'd left the US. Since stepping foot on British Soil, he'd had a grand total of 2 pints, both of those insistently paid for by fellow pub patrons, when they found out that "this young man" was a veteran of war. At that point, Quinn had been pleased just to be perceived as a young man, and hefted a glass of bitter just to be polite. But other than that, his drinking had been nil, he'd not had any tranquilizers, and his illegal drug consumption had stopped completely. When he'd gotten away from Clarice and those dirtbag pimp friends of hers in NYC, he'd lost his source. It seemed like too much hassle to find another, although he was certain they were around. He felt pretty good, most of the time, so there was no great urge to check out.

Instead, he set his mind to finding places to hike out of doors, places he'd only read about in books. Locations that had nothing to do with war, but which had significance in movies he'd seen or literature he'd read. Places that showed up in the King Arthur stories, and even the more distant past. England and Wales were so full of history, with rich detail around every corner, that he didn't know where to start. Even the smallest landmark sometimes had huge historical significance.

Quinn started slow, and put himself in positions where if he tired out, he'd not have a long and painful walk back to a bus stop or to his B&B. Over the following weeks, it got easier. He hadn't had this much deliberate exercise in a long time. His limp got less pronounced, and he unconsciously started walking with less of a slouch. He'd taken a train from Southhampton to London, and changed trains at Paddington to head to the West country. He took a train to Somerset and then buses and Uber the rest of the way out to Tintagel head, and stared at the sea some more. He'd moved on from there, walked around Cornwall and Devon, and found his way around the hiking trails at Dartmoor, stopping for a cream tea in a village on its borders.

That night, he slept all the way through from 9 PM to 6 AM, with no nightmares. The following day he remembered a New York cabbie who'd cussed him out for his slow, irregular stride in the crosswalk, shouting, "Go take a hike!" Quinn grinned as he remembered his good hand shooting the finger back at the guy. _You're fuckin' A, pal. I'm taking hikes, alright._ He almost laughed to himself at the memory. It was getting easier.

He'd abandoned the quad cane and purchased a long, plain walking stick at a hiking shop in Taunton. Taking public transport up from Devon through Wiltshire, he stopped at Stonehenge, which in his opinion was an utter tourist trap and a complete waste of time, despite the uniqueness of the stones themselves. The gift shop had been elbow to elbow with tourists from Pac-Asia, and he'd almost gotten claustrophobic while packed in there with them. He'd boogied as soon as possible.

From Stonehenge, he moved on to Avesbury, which was most definitely not a waste of time. The incommunicable sense of history around the place, in the huge stones that circled the village and the nearby Silbury Hill Fort brought him back to himself, in ways he could not have described to anyone. He found after an evening in a pub reading flyers that he'd been walking an ancient trail that month, so ancient that it had been in used in the Bronze Age. It was called The Ridgeway. He wasn't into religion or supernatural presences, but the terribly old surroundings made him feel better in some way. He thought it was significant, but he couldn't say how. It might have simply been that this is something that had been missing all of his life – a search for meaning outside of the next job. Even if that meaning was something as straightforward as "seek beauty."

He hadn't had enough of the sights, not enough beauty or happiness, he thought as he got out of the Uber at the base of the hill. It was probably madness to try to climb this one. It looked like a long way up. But once up there, he'd be able to see the famous White Horse in the chalk cliffs above Uffington. It had been in another book he'd read, on a job at some point. He couldn't remember which book. Maybe it had been more than one?

Quinn started slowly up the path. He'd been building his stamina for weeks, and it seemed to have paid off. The day was mild, and all around him the great, dreaming hills of Oxfordshire spread far and away. He felt tiny, dwarfed by the loveliness and rolling hills all about him, and took his time making the hike, watching the grass waving like a green sea. He did see a few people along the way, but mostly they seemed like locals, older folks walking dogs, for the most part.

He reached the ridge of the hill, and cautiously touched the end of the horse, carved deep into the chalk, so large that it could only be seen completely from the air. Another Bronze age tribute to the animal? Or to a person or tribe? No one could be sure. There was no touristy feeling to this place – just a sense of quiet and decades, even centuries piled up together, one upon another like pages in an ancient bible. The English Heritage group who preserved the site didn't charge admission for this, so maybe they tourist bus groups didn't think it was worth it. But it was profoundly moving, and he had it nearly to himself.

Quinn spent an hour sitting at the top of the hill, looking in all directions. A few people came and went. A woman walked up from belowgrounds, sat downslope, and pulled out a good-sized sketchpad. She turned her back to him, and pulling a pencil case from her backpack, began to sketch the countryside. His fellow tourist was a brunette, but her silhouette put him in mind of Astrid. He thought of their long friendship, and her eventual sad ending. In some ways, he felt more than responsibility around her death – he felt _survivor_ guilt. _It should have been me._ But, it hadn't been, and now it was too late. What was he supposed to do with that feeling?

He'd been knocking around the world, doing a job that required anonymity. Doing it for so long that he hardly felt like he had a friend in the world. He rattled around his new life like a pea in a shoebox, without a thing or person to keep him anywhere, and no place that remotely felt like home. He didn't even know what a "home" should be like anymore - it was an abstract concept to him. Once, he thought he understood that Carrie could have been a part of what felt like home. He'd trusted that her feelings were strong enough to guide him. But as he'd written all those years ago, that had clearly been a false glimmer.

He stood, stretching, and held his arms out to the wind. Then, looping the leather strap from the walking stick around his wrist, he began to tread the path slowly down towards a place called Wayland's Smithy.

A few hundred yards down the hill, Quinn had fallen into the less watchful state that had started to become habit, now that he was an ordinary citizen living a normal life. So when a voice yelped out behind him and he heard a thud, he jumped as if shot. He turned quickly, keeping a grip on his walking stick. He almost grabbed for a sidearm which wasn't there anymore.

A hundred feet or so behind him on the path lay the woman who had been sketching. She had dropped her pad and backpack, and was holding her ankle. Quinn limped quickly back up the Ridge to stand near her. Her shiny brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail that flopped forward over her shoulder as she leaned down to inspect the damage. As he approached, she looked up at him, eyes full of pain, but a grimacing smile on her face.

"Oh, _ouch_! I can't believe how clumsy I was. Can you help me? I think it's twisted."

Not wanting to show infirmity, Quinn said nothing, just lowered his healthy arm to the young woman. She gripped his forearm with both hands, and he managed to lift her to her feet with only his "good side." He felt a feeling of accomplishment burnish his insides at that, but said nothing about it.

He was used to completing objectives silently, moreso than making conversation. He realized he was expected to speak, perhaps give comfort, but had no idea what to say. Finally he asked. "Can you walk on it?"

The woman tested her weight carefully on the twisted ankle, and then smiled at Quinn. She was almost as tall as he was - maybe 5'10", with ravishing feminine proportions - he couldn't help but notice. And he saw he'd been wrong about her age from a distance. He'd thought she was a student, but she was somewhere in her late 20's. Maybe 30. And her brown eyes were kind.

"I think so," she said, her voice accented with a charming mix of the US and the UK. "Maybe it would be easier if we went together." She squatted and quickly collected her drawing materials, which had been scattered in the fall.

Quinn transferred his cane to his strong side, and held his elbow out to the young lady, who took hold of it. It was strange, and he had no idea why, but he felt taller than he had in years.

"Yeah, let's do that. It would be easier for me, as well," Quinn said.

With that, they started down the trail together.


	8. Chapter 8

"So, what do you want to do?"

Carrie was sitting on a leather barstool in Otto's posh Manhattan penthouse. He had opened a bottle of _Châteauneuf-du-Pape_ and let it breathe. Now he poured a generous amount into a balloon-shaped stemmed glass, and slid it across the granite countertop until the foot of the glass almost touched her hand. She heard this activity, but hadn't seen it. She hadn't looked up, nor had she responded.

"There will be some time until your hearing." Otto continued carefully, wiping the counter with a white linen cloth, though it seemed there was not a drop of wine in sight. "I've contacted Paul Goldberger. He says he's overcommitted now, and _zo_ , he can't take your case. But he's going to recommend someone."

"I wanted Reda," Carrie replied.

"This kind of criminal suit is not… his specialty," Otto stated, as if he were speaking to a pouting child. He looked about the well-appointed kitchen for something else to busy himself with, and set about laying down a marble cutting board and pulling a few Henckels knives out of a drawer, which slid shut at the touch of his hand, smooth as silk. "I want to get you someone familiar with your likely judges on this federal circuit, as well."

"Besides," Düring continued, "The people Reda defends, they need him most of all. They don't have, shall we say, resources." Otto turned and rummaged in the Sub-Zero, withdrawing some imported Italian _soppressata_ and a pear-shaped ball of _caciocavallo._ He began to slice the pungent cheese and sausage thoughtfully, looking up cagily to eyeball Carrie's mood and expression.

 _Resources_ , she thought bitterly. He was right, the people Reda ordinarily defended sometimes didn't even speak English, and most had no idea of how the legal system worked. Many of them were destitute, seemingly singled out and persecuted because of their religious beliefs. That's what had made her work with the group feel so fulfilling. She felt like she was honoring Qasim, Sekou, and others who'd somehow made a left turn when they should have gone right. They didn't have a chance of fair treatment without Reda's defense.

But Otto had a point. He had money, he was willing to lend it. She should be grateful that he was using his clout to help her at all, at this point. As for herself, she had zero clout at the moment, and felt terribly alone. _If only Quinn hadn't died,_ she told herself convincingly. A shadow of uncertainty dwelt behind the façade of her regret, but she pushed it away.

She finally reached for the wine, and took a sip.

"You're right. This isn't his area. This whole thing is a cover-up. I think I'm being framed," she said, jarred to hear her own voice say the words out loud.

"It might be… what do you call it? A frame-up," Otto admitted. "But that doesn't mean it couldn't be used to put you in jail, successfully. For a long, _long_ time, Carrie." He slid the cutting board across the glossy countertop to her, and turning to a cabinet, began muttering to himself.

"What was that?" she asked, nibbling the edge of a piece of salami. Otto didn't answer immediately, though she was sure he'd heard. He looked closely at the box of crackers he'd located, and fussed about, opening it.

" _Otto_ ," Carrie said again, her tone more emphatic.

Otto turned, his head cast down and but his eyes rolled up at hers, like a forlorn puppydog. "I _said_ ," he uttered, "that if you were sent to Federal prison, I couldn't forgive myself."

She felt cold all over. Of course she would fight the charges, and she expected to be exonerated. _But_. If someone as well-traveled, sophisticated and far-seeing as _Otto Düring_ half-expected her to be convicted, even on trumped-up charges, then it was a possibility. _Prison_.

"Christ," she moaned, her head dropping into her right palm. "What a clusterfuck. What am I going to _do_?"

Otto felt emboldened by her despair. After he'd arrayed the fancy rice crackers on the cutting board, he braved physical contact with her, reaching across the countertop and putting his hand on Carrie's wrist. At that, she looked up at him.

" _Trust me_ ," he told her sincerely. "Trust me, and do what I say. And you won't have to worry."

 _Do what I say_. Someone had said that to her in the recent past. But she couldn't remember who, or when. It was like there was a black cloud over those days in her life. She looked up at Otto's brown eyes, his sympathetic, intelligent demeanor, his seemingly sincere interest in her well-being and her life's work. He attempted a smile.

"For now, just finish your wine. Then we'll go get something to eat. One thing at a time," he said.

Carrie expelled a heavy breath, and took a deep drink of the wine. It was a wonderful vintage. She watched Otto walk across the kitchen, and bustle with the hand towels, hanging them up on the rack over the bar sink and matching the lengths of the ends, neurotically.

She stood up, and walked to the window, looking out over the phenomenal view from 50 West. The new tower building Otto had moved into was enormous by New York standards, and well appointed in the extreme. The floor to ceiling double-height window walls were not for the faint of heart, nor those that feared heights. She remembered Otto said it had a hot tub in the master suite. That might feel good, later. Maybe she should just count her blessings for the moment.

"Otto," she mused, not turning. "Didn't you say you met someone? Do you need to call?"

Otto walked over and stood close to Carrie, next to her, as they looked out together at the ostentatious panorama of New York wealth.

"It didn't work out," he said simply. "What would you like for dinner?"

"Anything," she said honestly, keeping her gaze straight ahead, on One World Trade.

"Anything at all."


	9. Chapter 9

_Oxfordshire, England_

Under a sheltering canopy of ancient tree limbs, the dappled sunlight found its way to a packed earthen floor, where Quinn and the girl stood at the top of the stone staircase. He leaned on the gray, symmetrical rock entrance, worn smooth by generations of hands, and lifted his bad leg up with the other hand.

"Are you O.K.?' the girl said solicitously. She stood near, but didn't hover closely.

"Yeah," Quinn said. "Just..." Again, words failed him. He thought and looked back at her. Her eyes were concerned, but she wasn't wracked with pity, the look he usually saw on people's faces.

"Just tired," he finished.

"Me too," she said. "My ankle is ok, but that was a hike. Let's rest," she said.

Quinn and the young woman had met on the path down White Horse Hill, and had proceeded on together to take a long walk down the slope and to the next destination. They'd spoken little, but the young woman had been a pleasant companion, peppering the silence with a few breaks of pleasant observations and polite statements: the weather, the season, the clouds. He heard no artifice in her voice, and her eyes were trained on other things when he snuck peeks at her. She seemed to take in the grasses waving, the trees overhead, the ancient trail and his infirmity with a similar, solemn look of complete equanimity. He heard a hint of a smile in her voice at times, an expressive contralto that seemed inclined more towards an American accent than a British one. He had found the weight of her hand on his arm a pleasant distraction, and was pleased to see her gait improve as she worked out the kinks of her twisted ankle. Not twisted badly, then.

"A nice day," she sighed, sinking onto a bench. "Do you know the story of this place?"

"No," Quinn admitted.

"They used to say," she said, "that this was a magical blacksmith's shop. And you could bring your horse here, if he'd lost a horseshoe on the road. And leave a coin or two on the rocks, and leave your horse as well. And when you'd come back, the money would be gone, but your horse would be shod."

Quinn smiled down at his shoes. "A good story. But not likely. I wonder what this place really was."

The young lady shrugged, looking down as well. Her nose was a bit sunburnt, and the tops of her cheeks were rosy, too.

"There are all kinds of beliefs, aren't there? And over the years people have made up some fabulous stories. If you were an alien from another planet, you wouldn't know what to believe."

Quinn shifted, and looked up at the sky over them. Bright filtered daylight, and a perfect summer breeze cooling the hedges underneath. The woods seemed to whisper with it, and Quinn had to restrain himself from looking back down and observing the forest for hidden snipers.

Eyes on the sky, he heard himself say, "What do you believe?"

He heard the woman give a short laugh, and jumped as her hand landed softly on his upper arm. "If you mean formal dogma, I have no idea," she said. "My parents are Christians, but they never insisted I go to church. That stuff didn't seem important. When I went to grad school in America, I was too busy to worry about my immortal soul, and then, well, I got my degree and came home."

"So, no magical blacksmith for you?"

"It's no more likely than a guy in the clouds, with a certain book we need to read, or rules to follow. I suppose I believe in beauty," she said, gesturing around here. "Nature. Fairness. Being kind to people. Wouldn't this be a better world, if we were all kinder than we needed to be?"

Quinn grunted his assent.

"I guess this is where I ask what you believe. But first," the woman said, standing up, "tell me your name."

Quinn looked back down from the gap in the trees above where he had been studying a cloud. He looked into the eyes of the young woman next to him, and rose to his feet as steadily as possible. What to say now? Lie? Tell the truth? After all these years and Black Ops, what the hell should his name be, anyway? His mind spun through this Rolodex of possibilities and added the first surname he'd been known by, all those years ago.

"Quinn. Peter Quinn... O'Connor." he said.

"Nice to meet you," she said. They turned together, facing the smithy. "And now it's only fair to ask what your beliefs are. If you want to say," she said accommodatingly.

"Hmpf," Quinn grunted. If there was a question he was less equipped to answer than this one, he would be hard pressed to say what it was.

They trod on slowly. Finally Quinn came up with a few thoughts, and struggled to get them out. He felt his stammer getting worse, and he couldn't tell if it was his medication wearing off, or nerves around this lovely young woman, in such close proximity that he could smell her. Women generally didn't make him nervous, though.

"Well... I don't see any evidence of an afterlife," he said.

"Mm-Hmm. Me, either," she affirmed.

"I mean," Quinn continued, encouraged, "It's a nice thing to think about, a Heaven, with angels and all that. But I have a hard time believing it."

"Were you raised in a church?"

Quinn cast his mind back to those long ago days, and went silent, remembering his beautiful mother, his tall father, standing between them holding hands, while they sang hymns. Goggling at the beautiful stained glass windows, filled with strange scenes –a young man, a blue-veiled woman, a cross, the man's hands bleeding. He had always stared at that one.

"Catholic," he said tightly. He didn't allow himself to revisit those days much, even now.

"Well, that's a church that many walk away from. My parents are C of E. Not much different, really, I guess. Catholics minus the guilt. I learned a few things there, though."

Quinn was flummoxed by her ability to talk about these things. In all these years, he couldn't remember Carrie looking up and around, seeing these other facets of her world, enjoying a day, relaxing. Talking about philosophy. At least, not with him. Maybe it was because he'd only been with her on jobs. But it seemed that to her, all the world had been targets, assets, pieces to move on the big chess board. He had admired that. And he used to think he was standing by her, next to the chess board, helping her with strategy, so she could move the pieces. But in the end, he figured, he'd just been another pawn.

He forced his mind back to the present, as they left the grove of trees. With effort, he remembered the young woman's previous statement. "And what did you learn?"

She gave a little laugh, and began to rummage in her pack, pulling a sweet-smelling apple out. She first offered it to Quinn, and when he shook his head, she took a big bite.

"Mmm. A Pippin. Anyway. What did I learn… well, there's that bit about kindness. And, the Golden rule."

"Yeah. Whoever has the gold, makes the rules."

She took another bite of apple, and thoughtfully chewed. "No," she said. "I mean it. We should treat others how we want to be treated. There has to be, I don't know, a ripple effect. Kindness begets kindness."

They had been walking side by side, but as the path narrowed up the hill towards the White Horse, Quinn took the lead. He felt natural doing it, even though he was slower. There was no threat, but he aligned his body so the young woman was behind him. He heard her munching on her snack as they walked, and put an effort into moving as fast as he could, as gracefully as he could. Finding the going easier at the top of the hill, he accelerated yet again, leaving more space between himself and his companion. The sky overhead was a brilliant blue, sketched over with a few cirrus clouds that seemed to indicate cooler weather was on the way. His breath came faster as he reached a wider spot in the trail, seemingly trying to walk away from his infirmity, when the young woman caught up.

"Hey," she said, pulling abreast of him. "You're leaving me in the dust." She tucked the apple core into her pack. "I never thought to ask, but do you need to be someplace? I don't mean to keep you," she said politely.

"No, no." Quinn said, realizing that his effort to look less infirm would also signal his desire to leave. He hadn't meant to give that impression.

"Then, why the hurry?"

"I, um," Quinn struggled, slowing down a bit. "I feel like a bother when I move too slow. This…" he gestured helplessly down at his bad leg, his bad hand curled tight. He self-consciously pulled his pack up on his shoulder, hoping this bit of the conversation would be over soon.

"Well, you're sure not slow. And I'm used to it anyway," she said lightly.

He felt briefly pleased that she so easily had described him as "not slow," for he certainly felt that he was. Then, the implication of the next sentence hit him, and his heart sunk a bit.

"Used to what?" Quinn asked, guarded.

She caught his tone, and looked at him openly. "Oh, I don't mean anything by that. Not at all. I just mean, you see, my brother. He's in a wheelchair." She puffed along next to him, catching her breath. "He's on a different wavelength than me in a lot of ways, but he's made me get used to taking it easier." She smiled up at him.

"Well," Quinn said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, don't be. Robbie is alright. He's why I came back to the UK, though. Well, I mean my family is. Mom and Dad were doing it all by themselves. And running a B&B is hard work, not to mention, helping out with someone who has mobility issues. It's been ok, though. It's nice to be home," she said fondly.

Quinn saw that their conversation was nearly over, and it had surely made the time fly, because they were nearing the downslope of the hill. The White Horse behind them, they approached the car park, ringed by a copse of trees. Afternoon sun was started to slope down from the west, and only a few cars remained. It was time for him to summon a hired car. But he didn't really want to. How strange it was, to enjoy a new person, and to feel like lingering! This was a beautiful place, to be sure. But her voice, her ideas, the sun on her hair, had actually blotted out his mind-movie of Carrie for a pretty good period of time. In fact, he would have loved to spend longer at this place, with this person. Maybe there was somewhere else to walk. Maybe he could just… be with her. Not in the old way, no. Not just to get to score a one-nighter. Maybe just to eat dinner. Talking, or silent, both of those options felt comfortable. And then, to sit by a fire. That was something he had often read about, but never taken the time to enjoy.

Quinn slowed his pace as they approached the car park. He didn't know what to say, or how to part. He was quite sure that his young companion would be anxious to say goodbye and get on her way. After all, how could a beautiful, healthy young woman be interested in a beat-up crippled operative like him? He tried to consider what to say next, but the words got stuck. The two slowed to a stop at the edge of the car park, gorse in bloom all around them, the yellow flowers set all about with prickly thorns. He waited a heartbeat.

"Well," Quinn started.

"Well," she said, sounding upbeat. "That apple didn't begin to cover it. Want to get dinner?"

"Oh," he said. He had braced himself for a terse good-bye. "Oh. Yeah. I'd like that."

"Good," she said. "My car's over here. Where's yours?"

"Don't have one. Hired a ride," he explained, following her to a silver-gray Vauxhall Astra.

"Well, perfect. I'll give you one. If you don't feel unsafe riding around with a stranger, that is."

Quinn choked back laughter. If she only knew the number and kind of unsafe drivers he'd ridden with in the past, and how low she clocked on his "this person might kill me" scale, she'd be aghast.

"No," he smiled. "You don't seem unsafe."

"Well, good. We'll go straight to the White Horse."

Quinn turned to her quizzically, as she fished her car keys out of the backpack. "We just came from there."

"Oh. No, sorry. I'm terrible, sometimes I think things and don't say them. That's my parent's pub. _It's_ called the White Horse. It's right nearby, and my Mum will just be serving supper. I can lend her a hand, and you can eat, and then I'll join you," she said, swinging her pack into the tiny back seat.

She laughed at herself and fastened her seat belt. Her mind was made up, and that was good enough for now. He opened the car door, and levered his weight carefully into the passenger seat, taking care to move his bad leg as subtly as possible.

"Well, I didn't get much sketching done," she said brightly. "But this was better. I'm glad we met." She turned the motor over, and as she lay her slender fingers on the gearshift, Quinn put his huge hand over hers. She left the car in park, and looked him in the eye.

"Wait," he said.

"OK," she said, obligingly.

As Quinn struggled to find his words, the car engine rumbled. Damn his infirmity! He stammered, and after some delay managed to utter, "You… nn-ever told me…. name."

"Oh, that place? That was Wayland's Smithy," she said, her hand soft and warm under his.

"No," Quinn insisted. " _Y-your_ name."

"Oh, bollocks. I never introduced myself, did I? How rude of me." She laughed a little, and wiggled her left hand free, only to reach across with her right hand, and clasp his again in a handshake.

"I'm Marie-Rachel."


	10. Chapter 10

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" Carrie yelped. She slammed the phone down on the desk so hard that the attorney sitting across from her jumped an inch, rumpling his Savile Row suit.

"Everything all right?" he asked disingenuously.

"Oh, it's just _great_ , Ari," she seethed. "I've just had my child protection hearing postponed _another_ month."

"Oh. I'm sorry," he said, leaning back in the expensive Aeron chair. "I hope that wasn't the _guardian ad litem_ …"

"No," she said, sighing and slumping in the seat. "That was my other attorney." She might have muttered "Christ," but her response couldn't quite be heard, as she had dropped her face into her palm.

Carrie and Otto were sitting in the 48th floor office of one of the best law firms in the city, if not the state of New York. She was supposed to be reviewing her upcoming criminal court case with her lawyer, not worrying about Franny, who was still in the custody of child protective services. Otto, sitting slightly behind her and to the right, beetled his brows in troubled regard. He leaned forward and put his hand on her shoulder, neat fingernails shiny in the discreet indirect lighting.

"Carrie. Never mind that now. We'll talk to Philip later. Ari, you were saying?"

"Yes. Miss Mathison, initially, your case appeared to be straightforward. However, having failed with our motion to dismiss, my team now understands that the background is more complex than it appears. The state's case rests on the obstruction of justice charges. But as you know, they have also been stacking other charges against you, hoping that any one of the witness to these cases will be able to bring declassified information to the court make one of them stick, and thus…"

"Thus, finding me guilty of a felony," Carrie moaned. _Everything was going wrong._

"Well, that's a very far off possibility. But it _could_ happen. At this time, I see no reason to change your plea. I believe the case is built on hypotheticals… wishful thinking, and there seems to be an intent that you speak inadvisedly, and incriminate someone else. And yourself. Someone is hoping that you're going to be very clumsy," Ari emphasized, hoping she'd get the drift.

"It won't work," Otto snapped. "Carrie is innocent."

Without looking back, Carrie reached around and patted Otto's hand, still looking straight ahead at Ari.

"And, I have a very clever litigator," she said, attempting a smile. "So. What's our plan?"

"Well, I'm still deep in discovery. There are so many layers... and a lot of useful documents are redacted. I'm far from a point where I feel your best move would be to choose a lesser charge..."

" _For fuck's sake!_ I won't plead guilty to anything! These are made-up charges!"

"I believe that," the attorney said calmly, looking at her over steepled fingers. "I believe _you_ , and Otto believes you. But I don't know if the assistant U.S. attorney or the judge will believe you, Carrie. And unfortunately, your testimony simply provides more "he-said she-said." The uncomfortable truth is that you had foreknowledge of some events surrounding the terrorist attack supposedly perpetrated by Sekou Bah. Further, that you had foreknowledge concerning the involvement of various other state agencies in an attempt to essentially create a _coup d'état_ which was meant to unseat the President. Including an assassination attempt! _She_ clearly believes this, because she ordered your arrest, and the only persons who could testify on your behalf, are either in custody themselves…"

"Or dead," she said, sniffing. She just couldn't. It was too hard to explain.

"Or _missing_ ," the lawyer clarified. He looked from Carrie, who was studying her fingernails, to Otto's concerned expression, and back. "You see the spot we're in, then. Can I offer you two coffee? Or a drink?"

Ari Greenberg was the best defense attorney Otto could find, and he had indeed come with a fabulous pedigree. He was experienced in Federal cases and familiar with the cast of characters in all the relevant courtrooms. He was proud of his record, and was always well-prepared. But he was concerned. This case was peculiar.

It wasn't Carrie Mathison, exactly. She had a salty way of expressing herself, but many of his previous clients had been more difficult to work with than her. Still, there was something very shady about her case, even after he read through disclosure information pertinent to the federal warrant. Something wasn't right about it, and he believed her when she said she wasn't guilty. As far as he could tell, her behavior was completely consistent, as was her story. She wanted to be exonerated, and get her daughter back, that was all. But there was a shadow over the case. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was blocking the light.

Carrie sighed, and stood up. "Sure. Why not. Coffee," she said, sounding defeated. Ari poured her a cup, and then got one for Otto and himself. Otto stood up and came over, taking the drink directly from the tall, slender lawyer.

"What are we drinking to?" he asked. Greenberg made eye contact with Otto, and raised his eyebrows, chin lowered and lips pursed. _Nothing good,_ the lawyer's eyes said.

The spacious office had a sectional leather couch, facing out over lower Manhattan. An excellent Franz Marc reproduction hung on the dark paneled wall to their left. For some reason, the opulent surroundings made her feel more insecure, not less.

"I believe you can fight this, as long as we can go back, and prove your actual intent. Track communications. Is there anyone you can think of who might be able to testify regarding your reasons for being at, say, this formerly secured location… what did you call it?"

"The flag house," Carrie murmured, her mind taking flight. A shadowy figure, leaning through the light in a doorway. A rough voice. _You gotta let me go._

"Yes," said Ari. "You mentioned the Solicitor General?"

"He got his appointment from President Keane. I don't think he's likely to do anything but reinforce the state's case, if that's her wish."

Ari sighed. "I would have thought someone who did government work as long as you did, would have more connections. But, this case is radioactive. We're running out of people," he laughed quietly. "This Max… Max…"

"Piotrowski. Yes."

Ari sighed, and sipped at the steaming beverage, setting his cup neatly on the nearby end table. "We can't find him."

" _What_?" Carrie said.

"I looked, your Saul Berenson looked – oh, Berenson has channels of communication available, even inside. He provided a bit of info for you before he was released. He's out now," Ari said.

Carrie looked sideways at Greenberg, a guilty cast on her features. She hadn't thought to call Saul, and see where his case was at.

Ari continued, "Saul messaged that he couldn't find Max, either. And Dar Adal was a closed door on Mr. Piotrowski from the word go."

"Fuck," Carrie snarled. "Max had a… drug problem, years ago, and he had a girlfriend… then there was this… terrible incident at work. And he kind of went off the rails…"

"Yes," Ari confirmed. "We heard about that. But that wasn't recent. The firm was able to identify the young woman, the ex-girlfriend, and see if he'd contacted her lately…"

"And?"

"He did communicate with her. Briefly. She hadn't heard from him in four years, and she broke up with him because of the drug use… well, it turns out he dropped her a quick line, and then dropped out of sight."

"What? What did he say?" Carrie pleaded. Her avenues of defense were drying up.

"He told her that he was going to Africa. To climb Kilimanjaro,"

Otto snorted derisively, and Carrie frowned. "Oh, that's just… That's absurd," she said.

"Absurd or otherwise, that's all we know. No number, no email address, no trace of him is locatable. Your sister is a credible character witness, of course. But this is no crime of moral turpitude. This is a question of who knew what, when, with many layers of classified information in between. Our options are shrinking, Miss Mathison. Some of these charges might stick."

Otto leaned in, putting his arm around Carrie's shoulder.

"This is ridiculous, Ari. It's a revenge play, being perpetrated on Carrie to punish her intelligence community. She's their scapegoat," he said. "You have to think of something."

"I'll do my best, as will my paralegal and our entire team, of course," Greenberg said, rising. "But at this time, I don't have a strategic witness. Is there anyone else you can think of?" After a brief pause, "Anyone who isn't already under indictment?"

"No," Carrie said bluntly.

The attorney sighed. "Thank you for coming in. Call me night or day if you can think of any angles we can use."

They shook hands, and the lawyer's secretary saw them to the exit.

In the elevator on the way down, Carrie lay her head against the wall, and felt her anger dissolve into helpless tears. Otto held his arms open, but Carrie turned her face to the elevator wall.

"Hey. _Hey_ ," Otto insisted, turning her shoulders until her head was on his chest.

Carrie sobbed. The words running through her mind like a train of self-hatred got stuck in her throat, and only found voice in her tears.

 _I_ _can't see Franny... these legal bills are killing me... I don't have a job... I don't have a friend in the world._

"I have nobody," she whispered.

"You have me," Otto breathed.

It wasn't Franny's visitation day, so with nowhere else to go, they headed back to Otto's apartment in his Mercedes. Carrie wasn't in any shape at that moment to apologize to Philip, and find out what happened with the CPS custody hearing, so with her permission, Otto placed that call. She lay on the dove-grey couch in his penthouse living room, her tears running down her cheeks into the expensive cushions.

She heard his voice murmuring on the phone for some time, and then she heard him say a farewell. As the stress of her criminal case and custody case slipped away in the peace and safety of the high-rise, she dozed off, listening to the sounds of Otto rummaging in the kitchen. Soothing sounds. Reminded her of Maggie, of her Dad.

After a whole, Otto emerged from the kitchen. He sat down quietly across from her, and saw that she'd fallen asleep. He set a plate bearing a sandwich and a glass of milk down on the coffee table in front of her, and stood. She looked so peaceful, sleeping there.

He walked behind the couch, and reaching down, smoothed Carrie's hair away from her face, behind her ear. He left her to rest, and walked quietly to his home office in the back of the apartment.

 _Time enough, later._ _There would be plenty of time to explain, to talk about everything._


End file.
